The Morning Muster
by reiver393
Summary: Tales of some of the unsung heroes who served with Boromir at Osgiliath.
1. Chapter 1

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Muster

Chapter 1: Petrac

Petrac is sitting on the steps leading up onto the city walls, checking his scrip for the second time since he arrived in the square. The tools of his trade nestle within; needles, scissors and skeins of fine black thread. Just like my sewing box, his wife said as she watched him pack before he left the house. But amongst these basic tools are items no seamstress nor tailor would need; sharp tipped knives in a wooden box, precious phials of pure alcohol and highly valuable poppy juice swaddled in layers of wool, a bottle of smelling salts, two leather tourniquets, rolled bandages and moss filled swabs. It is these items that betray his trade, not as a man who works with cloth, but as a man of healing.

Five other men have already preceded him to the garrison to prepare two special wagons, men like him who have trained as battlefield healers. However, since the accident that left him lame in one leg and dependant on a stick, Petrac now goes no further than the garrison at Osgiliath. Waiting with him by the healers wagons are the men and women who will relieve the staff at present manning the Houses of Healing based amongst Osgiliath's ruins. As few buildings remain intact in that ancient place, they are not strictly houses but tented rooms attached to the old western Guard Tower, which serve well as a dry, warm refuge for wounded men while they await transport to the far superior Houses in Minas Tirith. When they reach Osgiliath later this day, Petrac's staff will prepare for the Company's eventual return from campaign and battle.

The healers have loaded their carts with vital necessities from the herbalists in the city; unguents sealed in glass jars, bottles of oils plus boxes of dried herbs to add to their own supplies. Piled high are crates of linen sheets, towels and blankets and many lengths of bandaging cut to size and rolled by the patients in the Houses in Minas Tirith, those who are recovered enough to perform such mundane yet vital tasks. Some time ago, Petrac persuaded Captain Boromir that monies must be found to purchase more of the grisly tools required by the frontline healers, cauterising irons and heavy knives, saws and files for when their work extended beyond the routine extraction of arrowheads and spear points to the amputation of limbs. As he wrote out the macabre order, the Captain had grimaced, expressing a wish that no healer would ever have cause to use the items on him; aware of others equal revulsion, Petrac has ensured these carefully wrapped tools have been tactfully hidden from general view.

It is twenty years since Petrac had begun his training as a healer, eight since he accepted the position at Osgiliath after his campaigning days were curtailed. In the Houses in Minas Tirith, the healers walk silent as wraiths, governed by a stern warden and aided by many assistants; some humourless and strict, some frivolous and, to Petrac's mind, most irritating with their constant inane chatter. In the garrison where he holds sway, the wounded find a much cheerier touch for joking, whistling and even singing are actively encouraged, all of which would be severely frowned on in the city Houses. But Petrac likes to see jolliness in his assistant's for the healer's tent is a stressful place where death stalks and where despair and fear linger. The sights and sounds of the wounded can be dreadful for even hardened healers to bear; the unpleasant smells of blood, infection and burnt, cauterised flesh often hang like a shroud. In his view, to turn a man's mind from inevitable grim thoughts is as much a part of a healer's trade as the salves and threads and splints they use.

Deafness is another trait he encourages in his fellow healers and assistants. Many come from an educated background and some from noble families. The soldiery's many and varied profanities can embarrass and offend some of the younger recruits new to the profession and this sensitivity has to be swiftly knocked out of them. If they dislike plain talk and coarse language then they must pretend not to hear it, he tells them bluntly; the men are hurting and afraid. Anything that helps them to cope with their suffering is to be resolutely borne, for the offending of a healers sensibilities is naught compared to a man's anguish on seeing his own muscle and bone laid bare.

It is said often amongst the soldiery, 'if the orcs don't get you, the healers will'. Strange it is to Petrac, but many fear the sting of the healers needle in their flesh far more than the slice of the enemy's sword. He tells them it is because there is no battle fever raging in their blood to dull the pain when they sit in the peace of the healer's tent. Many swoon at the first sight of the healer's implements; hardened warriors, who stand fearless against the vile weapons of the enemy, faint clean away as a healer holds up a needle to the light to thread it. Yet others are made differently, those who can sit straight-backed as bone fragments are pulled free from a wound or watch in morbid fascination as the raw edges of their own flesh are drawn together by the healers sinuous black thread. With nary a hope of fainting to avoid the sight nor the feeling, they suffer far more. 'Pain comes once in the wounding, but doubles in the mending' is another soldier's bitter jest.

The Captain is one of the latter group and Petrac's thoughts turn to the man as he awaits his arrival. He wonders if the weeks of leave have brought some peace to him and whether his wounds have begun to heal; not physical wounds this time but wounds of the heart, those that take far longer to make good. Although he is under the Captain's command, they have forged a solid friendship, which both value highly and his thoughts have rested often with his friend these past weeks.

When newly given charge of Osgiliath, Boromir had been approached by Petrac who asked his permission to turn a derelict area of the garrison into a productive garden. Dubious of the need or the possibility of success of such a scheme, Boromir had been initially dismissive, sending the quiet mannered healer away with a curt refusal. However, both had reckoned without the hand of fate, which intervened just days later. Falling victim to a slash from an orc's dagger, Boromir found himself brought to the healer's tent where Petrac insisted on treating him personally.

Whilst attending to the deep cut on the Captain's leg, he cannily took the opportunity to broach the subject of a garden once more. And this time, unable to move as his wound was carefully cleaned, stitched, poulticed and bandaged, Boromir was doomed to listen as Petrac, his ministrations deliberately extremely slow, outlined his plans and the reasons behind them. This time he made a favourable impression and, when the operation was complete, Boromir limped from the tent already making his own plans.

He granted Petrac his small patch of Osgiliath in which to make his garden, a sunny spot by the broken western wall, full of rubble and discarded, rusting weaponry. Ten men were taken from their normal duties, detailed to dig out the space and surround it with low walls made from ancient stone lintels. Next the positions for the beds were marked out and edged with reclaimed timber from the old city's ruined buildings. Boromir then organised four cartloads of soil and manure to be delivered from a farmstead on the Pelennor and, within a week of the request being granted, Petrac began his planting.

Now Osgiliath's small band of healers is self sufficient in feverfew, thyme, chamomile and rue, bright calendula, marjoram, comfrey and fragrant hyssop. Purple and green leaved sages grow, their leaves made into tea against delirium in feverish patients and their oil distilled to use against infections of the lungs. Rosemary also flourishes, its blue flowers a welcome splash of colour, its perfume soothing. The healers use the oil to treat headaches and add it to liniments. Yellow loosestrife has colonised a shady corner, a doubly valuable herb; distilled in water it is excellent for cleansing and when boiled and squeezed dry into a poultice, it helps stop bleeding. Framing each bed is low growing alchemilla, its fresh leaves when scalded are used as a compress to assist in the healing of wounds.

On the tiled roof of the old stable where Petrac now has his workshop, sempervivums prosper, the juice from their bruised leaves used on ulcers and burns. In a damp corner, where the rain drips from the roof high above, peppermint thrives, its leaves brewed into tea to both soothe and revive while around its feet grows borage, another patch of brilliant blue flowers, used to treat rashes. Garlic and chives are also grown, a syrup of the former given to those with breathing problems while the latter, used fresh, stimulates the appetite of those too wearied by their injuries to eat. Petrac has even planted a fig and two apricot trees, which cling to the sunny sheltered walls. The Captain is wont to raid these when he seeks a moment's sanctuary in the peaceful haven his chief healer has created where, tended daily by Petrac and his assistants, the precious plants are nursed with as much care as their patients.

Petrac's resourceful nature is evident everywhere; rusting and dented helms, useless for the soldier's use, are nailed upside down onto the wall and planted with lavenders. Old ale barrels are sawn in half to provide yet more growing space. He even makes use of splintered spear shafts and broken orcish swords, using them as supports for his taller plants against the rain and wind, their metal too coarse to be reused by the blacksmiths. An upturned shield, long ago abandoned, serves as a bath for the few birds that still grace the old city. One of his assistants looks after two very active beehives; another has turned his hand to building wooden benches for the patient's use. And to everyone's delight, in the second year of the gardens creation, a pair of ducks flew in from the Anduin to set up their home, laying six blue eggs. When the family had hatched, Captain Boromir had brought his brother to the garden to proudly show off the new arrivals and to point out the two ducklings that bore their names.

As Petrac waits for his orders, he sees his Captain enter the square. Striding boldly in, he is sharing a joke with his esquire who walks at his side, their laughter echoing from the walls. While his esquire carries armour and a travel bag across to the stables, Petrac sees Boromir head over to the Rangers cart to hand over another travel bag to the orderlies on duty there. He notes the man looks well-rested, full of energy and clearly ready for the rigours of the coming campaign. Yet the last time Petrac had seen him in Osgiliath he had been a vastly different man; wearied by sorrow and loss, forcing his own grief inwards as he commanded a garrison fallen to a quiet despondency as all mourned the passing of one much admired and respected.

Captain Leomir, close friend of Captain Boromir's from their military academy days, had suffered a spear thrust deep into his back during combat and his distraught lieutenant returned him to the garrison semi-conscious and barely alive. Forewarned, Boromir had raced to meet them at the Gate and helped carry his friend to the healer where he had been laid in a quiet area, his bed curtained off for privacy. Yet despite Petrac's best efforts, the damage was too great and there was little he could do but administer opiates to dull the man's suffering.

Through a harrowing few hours, Boromir barely left his friend's side for a moment. If willpower alone had the ability to heal then Leomir would have awoken and walked, Petrac thought as he watched from the shadows, so fervent was the look on Boromir's face for his friend to live. As he cradled the dying man in his arms, his shirt soaked up the blood that oozed through the bandages. He held his hands, calming him when he cried out and struggled against the pain. On Leomir's passing, Boromir had wept, head down, shoulders juddering as he tried in vain to control his distress. Petrac stood silently by until the man eventually mastered his emotions; saw him gently stroke the sweat-matted hair back from Leomir's face, close his eyes, then bend to leave a lingering kiss of farewell on his brow.

And when his Captain eased himself to his feet, Petrac had not turned his head and their eyes had met. Immediately a scowl spread across Boromir's face, changing swiftly to fear to be seen so exposed, but Petrac pre-emptied him before he could speak.

"Captain Leomir was a very worthy man, my lord." He said, placing a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder. "His loss is a great tragedy for us all."

Boromir swallowed his pride to allow his humanity to resurface. "Aye," he murmured. "He was a true and loyal friend, as dear as a brother to me. I never thought to see this day."

"Then you should feel no shame to be seen mourning his death, sir."

If he was annoyed by Petrac's presumption, Boromir did not show it. "Yet, Petrac, I would be grateful if you told no-one of my… my…"

"Of your tears, my lord?" the healer interrupted, going straight to the point. "What is there to tell? I saw naught just now but a man sorely distressed by the death of a much-loved comrade. Surely t'is only proper to shed tears at such a grievous time?"

Further wretchedness filled the Captain's face. "Tears are a sign of weakness, I have often been told."

"Then forgive me, but I must disagree with whoever holds that belief. To my mind, tears are the sign of a caring heart, not a weak one. I know many tears will be shed in this garrison and far beyond for such a Captain as Leomir. And you must have no fear I should say aught to discomfit you, my lord." Petrac assured him. "We healers are by nature tight-lipped."

"I beg your pardon. Of course, you speak truly and I…I thank you for it." Boromir made a poor attempt at a smile. "And I thank you also for the care you gave to Leomir. His family's grief will be eased knowing he died in peace and dignity." His eyes strayed behind him to the man who lay in apparent sleep, tears once more brimming though he bit his lower lip hard in an effort to prevent them doing so.

The healer bowed his head in acceptance of his words. "I wish all those who come to me in such straits could likewise have a peaceful end, my lord. Sadly, 'tis often beyond my capabilities." His hand moved to the Captain's elbow to steer him away from the dead man. "Pray come and find some rest in my room, sir. I have wine there which will warm and soothe you, then you must find sleep."

Boromir shook his head. "I wish not for sleep, Petrac. I know too well of what I will dream."

"Fear of our dreams belongs to us all, my lord," came the frank reply, "but sleep we must all the same. 'Tis the only way to repair both body and mind." And too exhausted to protest further, the Captain allowed himself to be led to the peace of the healer's small workroom where a welcoming fire burned in the brazier. He sank into Petrac's old leather armchair, accepted and drank gratefully a mug of warm mulled wine, to which the healer added a generous amount of brandy. In the soft glow of lavender scented candles and to the sound of his healer's quiet humming as he went carefully about his business, tinkering with his jars and pots, Boromir surrendered to a restless slumber.

Barely a month has passed since that night and now the return to Osgiliath is imminent. Petrac winces as he pushes himself to his feet, one hand steadying the heavy scrip, the other gripping his stick for balance as Boromir approaches him, a man in full charge of himself, a Captain ready for command, a warrior at ease, self-assured and confident.

"Greetings to you, Petrac. You have all you need? Your new purchases are safely stowed?"

"They are, sir. I wish I could say they will stay that way."

"I too." Boromir echoes his healer's grim smile. He scans the laden wagons before meeting Petrac's waiting gaze. "I dined with Leomir's father last night, Petrac. He sends you his best regards."

"Thank you, my lord. I trust the family are coming to terms with their loss?"

"They are, as we all must do in time. And I was given the news that Leomir's widow is with child again. That he died not knowing of it is a further torment for those of us who loved him, but equally, to know yet another child will bear his name…." his voice tails off.

"That is joyful news, sir, for a child will bring great comfort. And a new life is always cause for rejoicing, is it not?"

"It is, aye." Boromir agrees. "In his children Leomir has left Gondor great gifts for the future."

"Indeed so, my lord." Petrac smiles, and then springs his surprise. "Sir, with your agreement, I should like to plant a tree in the garrison garden to commemorate Captain Leomir's life. I thought an apple would be an apt choice for, alike to him, 'tis both hard working and generous. It gives both flower and fruit and, eventually, will also give shade and shelter." Though Boromir looks taken aback, undeterred, Petrac continues, "Should the idea please you, will you assist in the planting, my lord?"

He waits while his Captain seeks for words. "I think it a fine idea," he says finally, "and one which would also please Leomir greatly. I cannot think of a better way for any man to be remembered. You have my permission gladly and I will be honoured to assist. In fact, Petrac, should you be all prepared then best you set off to Osgiliath now. Your time will be better spent there than waiting for the rest of the Company to form muster." Boromir's hand tightens around a sheathed dagger that Petrac knows was a gift from his friend. "For the garrison's part, this campaign will be fought, and won, in Leomir's name. Many of his own unit will fight alongside Osgiliath's men and I am fortunate to have so many hardy soldiers with me."

"Let us hope you bring them back, sir."

"Oh, I shall do my best, healer." Boromir glances behind him as the first group of soldiers noisily enter the square. Touching his hand to his heart, he vows, "I promise you, I shall do my best."

Petrac mimics his action, bowing his head respectfully as he takes his leave. "I have never known you do anything less, Captain." he says.


	2. Chapter 2

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Morning Muster

Chapter 2: Fedren 

There is a heartfelt embrace for each of his six children in turn. Taking his farewell from them never gets any easier; as his three daughters cling onto him, he is almost unbalanced. With a lump in his throat, he kisses each fair head before gently prising himself free. His youngest daughter is sobbing now so he kneels to wipe her tears away, soothing her fears with well-practised words of reassurance and, as a distraction, a request that she draws him a picture for his return. He has many such in a box under the bed. Summoning his eldest girl to take the child, he hugs his two younger sons, gaining a promise from them that they will keep up their arms practice and take care of his womenfolk.

Fedren at last reaches his eldest son, standing by the door. He takes his hand in a firm grasp then leans forward to place a tender kiss on his brow. "You know what I expect of you, Lornian." He says quietly, his words for his son's ears only. "And well do I know the burden I place on you is a heavy one."

"I shall do my best never to fail you, father. I promise."

"Good lad." Fedren cups his son's cheek gently, nodding his gratitude. Then he bends to pick up his cloak and throws it over his shoulders before turning to embrace his wife one last time, taking a long moment to bid her farewell. As he steps to the door, Lornian keeps his hand on the latch.

"Please, may I walk with you to the muster, father? Just this once?" the boy asks.

Fedren likes to say his farewells inside his home. It is not his way to be emotional in public so none of his family have ever accompanied him to the muster square. But he sees the plea in his son's eyes and weakens. After all, he is training to be a soldier of Gondor himself. "Aye," he says, "come on then. Just this once."

Down through the quiet streets they go, a quick pace, their boot heels pounding the stone together in perfect time, no words spoken. Lornian's excitement grows as they near the first level, for it will not be long before his turn to serve his country arrives and he is keen to feel a part of her army, albeit on this occasion he is on the sidelines.

At the square it is all noisy chaos; soldiers milling together, telling jokes and swapping tales, greeting friends, checking their gear. Three sergeants stand in a group to one side, keeping a close eye on their men while the Captain, Lornian sees him almost immediately, is standing alone, idly pulling at a strand of his hair as he studies a map, his Lieutenants deep in discussion not far away.

Lornian follows his father, pushing through the throngs of men to the far side of the square where Fedren has orders to oversee the packing of the Company's supply carts. There are also many supplies waiting to be loaded for the Rangers. Men from the bowyers are helping to load boxes of arrows and bowstrings, arrowheads and polished yew staffs onto the carts, while apprentices from the armoury stand guard over boxes of daggers and swords. One lad holds a package of whetstones and phials of oil to his chest as though it were precious treasure.

Amongst the crates of fresh victuals, candles, lamp oil and blankets are two large containers from the healers; one holds essential distillations, powders, oils and salves while the other is packed with numerous rolls of linen bandages and swabs. Stowed carefully inside the latter is a flat wooden box containing finely sharpened blades, needles and reels of thread.

On the Captains own order, a small cart has been provided to take personal packages from the Rangers families to the men who guard Ithilien. It has been a welcome and appreciated gesture; many wives and parents have come by the gatehouse to leave letters, packets of favourite foodstuffs and fresh clothing for their menfolk, while children shyly handed over smudgy charcoal drawings to be given to their fathers. Notes from sweethearts are easily recognised. By tradition, they are sweetly scented and sealed for they will contain small tokens of affection; maybe a dried flower or a sprig of herbs, a ribbon to fasten through a belt buckle or a small silver charm, for many of Gondor's soldiers pin these under their tunics. Amongst the many packages, and also awaiting loading, is a large leather bag, battered from years of use for it has made many journeys between the city and the forest. The embossed emblem of the White Tree it bears shows it to be the Captain's property.

Fedren is soon busy talking to the orderlies and supervising their work so Lornian retreats to one side to absorb the disorganized scene of which he is now part. The men seem on the whole cheerful with little trace of anxiety on their faces. He thinks that must be due to the Captain's air of complete calm. Lornian sees him now laughing with one of his officers; he appears to be as at ease as if he were preparing for an afternoon stroll, not going forth to engage in battle with the enemy.

Lornian paces up and down to steady his churning stomach, though he is not the one marching to war. He reaches out to stroke the carthorses, restlessly waiting to haul their burdens eastwards, and he acknowledges cheery greetings from men he recognises. He worries that even when he has completed his training, he shall never feel as calm as these soldiers appear to be.

But he knows fear for himself is not the same as this dreadful apprehension which has haunted him all his life; the fear that his father may one day not return home. Should that day dawn, Lornian knows his father trusts him to take his place as provider for the family. They have talked about it at length, the possibilities of this event, but, although he has vowed to accept the responsibility his father desires of him, Lornian tries not to think too hard upon it. He has friends who have had to face that challenge and has no desire to join their number.

"Fine morning, eh, Fedren?" Lornian hears a deep, pleasant voice and turns to see the Captain has appeared suddenly by his father's side. "Excellent hunting weather, is it not?"

"Aye, 'tis indeed, and a hunt we shall have, my lord," Fedren answers with an eager grin of anticipation, "with many a kill to boast of." He raises a hand to beckon his son to come forward.

"Let us hope so. Is this Lornian?" Boromir greets the lad with a friendly smile though nervous shyness grips Lornian to render him momentarily mute. "He is dwarfing you by a head, I reckon."

"Aye, that he is, sir. Eats more than the rest of us put together he does, though for all that there's no muscle on his bones. His mother reckons he has hollow legs."

At Fedren's words there is good-natured laughter from the soldiers gathered around them. To his horror Lornian feels a blush warming his face. "Father..." he attempts a protest.

"My brother was just the same at your age. He was so skinny, I used to threaten to jam a helm on his head and use him as a spear." Boromir's joke causes more laughter to ring out. Though Fedren chuckles, his son looks at the ground, praying his long hair will cover the red flares in his cheeks, his discomfiture complete. He wishes fervently now he had stayed at home.

Boromir sees the bowed head and puts out his hand to raise the lad's chin up. He notices the high colour in his face and the same hurt in the lad's eyes as once he saw in Faramir's. "But it was a cruel jest then as now." His smile becomes gentle and he says in a quieter voice, "Forgive me, Lornian, it was unkind of me to tease you."

"But 'tis true, my lord. I am a beanpole." He mutters.

"Yet the Lord Faramir is surely proof enough that it will not always be so." He places his hand on the boy's bony shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I believe I recall your father telling me you have a mind to join the Mountain Rangers."

"I do, my lord." Having his favourite subject suddenly gifted to him, Lornian quickly forgets his embarrassment. "I have always loved the mountains. My grandfather has taken me climbing since I was four years old."

"To get him out from under his mother's feet. He was a right lively little rascal." Fedren interjects.

Another blush reddens Lornian's face. "Aye, but it was no punishment. I loved it."

"You have been climbing with the cadets?" Boromir asks.

Lornian's back straightens; his eyes begin to sparkle. "I have, my lord. I spent a month with the Rangers on exercises and received a good report. From the city we climbed Mindolluin then onwards to call at all the beacons till we reached Halifirien."

"They said he was a natural born climber, sir, and well skilled as a hunter." His father pauses in the loading of the cart to speak.

The Captain nods with approval and Lornian takes the chance to continue. "Our task was to check all the passes were open and stock up the bothies with firewood and blankets. We also had to help repair the Erelas beacon, which was damaged by high winds and the Rangers made us camp out in the open every night though there was snow on the ground."

"Then not a posting for the faint hearted, eh?"

"I suppose not, sir, but it is what I wish to do, more than anything. In three months, when I have completed my cadet training, the Rangers have offered me a place." He adds proudly.

"Well done. That is excellent news. Too few choose that course yet 'tis a vital part of our defences. So you prefer the mountains to the forests of Ithilien?"

"Oh yes, sir. The forests are too dark and enclosed for my taste. I like to see the land spread out before me and watch the changes in the sky. From the peaks 'tis a wonderful sight, so vast it seems it goes on forever. I like to watch storm clouds rolling in and sunsets and at night, with just the stars above..." as he speaks he suddenly remembers the Captain's brother holds command in the forests and, fearing he has given offence, stutters, "But I… I would serve there gladly, sir, in the forest I mean, under Captain Faramir, if so ordered. I know holding Ithilien is vital, sir, and if need be…"

"But the mountains get into your blood like nothing else, do they not?" Boromir interrupts, sparing him further awkwardness. "My brother may prefer his canopy of trees but, alike to you, I want to see naught but the stars above me of a night." Suddenly he looks almost wistful. "'Tis far too long since I had a sojourn up in the mountains. I was sent once to the outpost at Min-rimmon and recall being loath to return home. I can yet bring to mind the peace and silence of being above the clouds, watching eagles soaring high above me."

"Huh. That's all well and good, but we need you down here with your sword at the ready, my lord, not idly watching eagles from the mountain tops like a star gazing poet." Fedren says sourly.

It is Boromir's turn to chuckle. "And yet I would enjoy a chance to repeat such an indulgence. Maybe one day I shall pay you a visit, Lornian. And I will bring your father along; let him see what he has been missing."

"Oh no, Captain, oh, no. Begging your pardon, sir, but you must take another or go alone, for I find the mountains not to my liking at all." Fedren shudders in protest.

"Some folk have no sense of adventure." Boromir grins at the boy and hears the man snort with disapproval.

"Young Lornian gets his climbing abilities from his mother's side of the family, sir, not mine." Fedren says in his own defence.

"Father gets dizzy walking up to the fifth level, sir." The boy takes a chance to tease his father and is rewarded with an even wider grin from the Captain.

"Then it is the Ranger's good fortune that you take after your mother." Boromir says. "Who will be your Captain, Lornian?"

"Captain Calmeral has asked for me, sir."

"Has he indeed? Then your family need have no cause for concern for you will be in excellent hands. I know him as a most competent Captain and a very reasonable man. And should you look out for him as well as your father does for me, then he will be a fortunate man also. I wish you good luck, lad."

"Thank you, my lord." Lornian's blush is caused by pleasure now as he watches the Captain stride away to speak to others.

"Come on, boy." his father's voice breaks into his reverie. "You can help me load these last few boxes. Bring them over here. And mind you take care with that bag; it's the Captain's for his brother. Be a few special treats in there, I shouldn't wonder." But the hand that is tugging his arm is gentle and the look of pride on his father's face is clear. "You handled yourself well." Fedren says softly. "Some folk just gawp at him and say nothing."

"I like him." Lornian replies, bending to the task he has been allotted. "But I was surprised he knew my name; I did not know you had talked of me to him."

"Well, I'm not a man given to boasting, but I'm proud of you and of what you've achieved, son." It is his father's turn to redden. He sees his son's eyes fill with appreciation for this rare compliment. "And the Captain always takes an interest in our families. 'Tis a shame he's not got one of his own."

"He's easy to talk to; I almost forgot who he was. He just seems, well ... normal, not like some of those Lord's I've seen riding through the city, all finery and looking down on us."

"He wouldn't know how to look down on anyone," Fedren places the Captain's bag safely on the cart, "and that's the mark of an honourable man, whatever the manner of his birth. With Lord Boromir, he's a soldier first and foremost, just like us."

"I hope Captain Calmeral is the same."

"No doubt he's a good man and very able, and it pleases me to know the Captain rates him highly. But there's no-one like Captain Boromir, my lad. No-one." Fedren replies firmly. "As I've told you many times, there's no man finer in all of Gondor and never will there be. Just you remember that."


	3. Chapter 3

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Morning Muster

Chapter 3: Tregoron

"You're getting too old for all this nonsense." She chides, tidying away the breakfast bread and fruit, collecting the platters into a pile. He watches as her cloth sweeps the crumbs off the polished oak table, sees them settle onto the tiled floor by his feet. "Far too old and well you know it. You've done more than your fair share for this country. 'Tis long past time you retired and looked to your family. The Valar knows there's plenty of grandchildren who would love to see more of you."

"Peace, woman." It comes out as a growl, but he is not really angry. They are covering old ground and he is close to admitting defeat for, in truth, he realises he agrees with her. To his chagrin his age is telling on him. Old wounds taunt him when he is tired and the sword cut he took to his left leg nigh on twelve years past aches constantly. He finds himself limping some days, which brings on bad temper; that he has not the speed nor agility he once had irritates him further. Draining the last of his tea, he places the empty mug down with a dull thud on the table. "Hold your tongue."

"I will not." Undaunted, she stands before him as he rises, fingers reaching to flick breadcrumbs off the front of his tunic. She tucks her cloth into the deep pockets of her apron, saying, "I am quite serious, Tregoron. We've talked of this often enough and it's about time you took note of what I want for once. Promise me you'll tell the Captain this will be your last mission and that afterwards you want to come home for good."

"Look, lass..."

"Face it, man." She won't let him finish. "You know as well as I that you've neither the energy nor the health to ply your trade any longer. Besides, you're a grandfather now. Let younger men take your place while you take a hard earned rest."

Her words sting and he reacts instinctively. "Grandfather I may be, but I can yet wield a sword better than most! And I know I can still be of some use despite the many years behind me!"

"And that pride of yours will have you dead!"

He has no answer to that. She is right. It is only pride that keeps him going now, that and a desperate need to feel he is not so old, is not useless, still has a place with his Company and is valuable there. She does not know it, but Captain Boromir has already spoken to him of lessening his duties, that perhaps staying garrison based would suit Tregoron better, rather than going on campaign. It was an awkward interview for them both; Boromir was clearly ill at ease suggesting such a thing to one who had trained him and covered his back in many a fight. In the end, one more tour of duty had been granted, but it was a reluctant commander who signed the papers.

Tregoron knows there will be no more chances to bluff the Captain he is well enough to keep up with men half his age and he does not want to hear Boromir order him into retirement. He also knows friendship takes second place to duty and that the Captain has only allowed him to stay on so far out of friendship. Duty will soon make his decision for him and that will hurt them both. But he does not want to place Boromir into that uncomfortable position. It would be best all round if he took his destiny in his own hands and surrendered to the inevitable. But surrender comes hard to an old soldier. Into the awkward silence, he manages to say only, "Oh lass, my sweet lass…"

Swallowing her anger, she puts her arms around him, sharing his pain. "Tregoron, do you forget Gondor has already taken from me a father, a brother and an uncle." One hand reaches up to touch his cheek. "And… and a son." She sees his jaw clench and his eyes close in painful remembrance. Tears fill her eyes as she asks in a whisper, "Have I not suffered enough? Must I give a husband also?"

He takes her hands in his own and looks into her eyes. It is still there, the anxiety he first saw when she bade him farewell over thirty years ago. Standing so close to her, in his mind the years roll back and she is one and twenty again, slender as a reed, long black hair framing her sweet face and tumbling down to cover her breasts, her skin soft from their morning lovemaking.

But today her hair is streaked with grey, worn for the most part fastened up and tucked beneath a scarf. After bearing five children she is no longer the slender maiden. Though her body is soft and plump to his touch, her hands sit hard and dry in his, a legacy of years of hard work as a housewife. In her still sweet face she bears the evidence of her years spent as a mother and a soldier's wife, but the lines etched there are not those of a life lived in sorrow; for all the heartache she has borne, they show there has also been much joy and laughter. He feels suddenly very grateful to have had her love and unflinching support for so many years.

"I will talk to the lad," he concedes, "but I can't just sit at home and play with children. I'm not yet ready for that. But I suppose I could ask if he will give me a post with the youngsters here at the barracks, then at least I'd be on hand and home each night. How does that sound?" As he pulls her to him, he feels her relax.

"If you are home each night, then it will content me. Lord Boromir will find you a good position, I am sure of it." She nestles against him, her head tucked into his shoulder. Eager to steer their last few moments together to safer ground, she says, "remember when he first came here with young Faramir to see your grandfather's sword? Just a boy he was then."

"Aye, he was. That was some time back, eh, lass?" His eyes travel to the weapon, lovingly polished and mounted in pride of place on the wall above the fire. It is no sword of great lineage, but a quite ordinary infantryman's sword, just one of thousands made by the smiths of Minas Tirith for the soldier's of Gondor's army. But it is special for, long ago, it had been wielded by Tregoron's grandfather with great courage. It had slain an orc gleefully poised to deliver a killing blow to a soldier of Gondor, a young warrior who, though wounded, had valiantly continued to fight until, in the deep mud of the battlefield, he had lost his footing. As he fell, his sword flew from his hand. Sprawled on his back and with the battle cry of Gondor still on his lips, he lay facing his enemy completely defenceless.

Tregoron's grandfather had shown no hesitation. Hurling himself between the two adversaries, he took the full force of the orc's axe onto his shoulder. Though the armour he wore saved his life, it was a fiercesome blow, which shattered his collarbone and brought him to his knees. But before the orc could strike again, he found the strength to force his sword upwards and into the fell creatures body. Then, roaring his defiance at more advancing orcs, he had somehow held a defensive position before his stricken comrade until others came to their aid and were able to drag them both to safety.

That courageous deed had entered the history books and earned Tregoron's grandfather much praise and honour. His gallantry that day ensured the Steward's heir, Ecthelion, would live to fight many more battles for Gondor. And the sword with which he had performed that brave feat had been passed down the family to hold pride of place in Tregoron's home.

Tregoron remembered how one sunny afternoon he had opened his door to find two boys standing in the street, how the elder had bowed politely and explained that he had heard from his tutor about Tregoron's grandfather and his own, the late Steward Ecthelion, and that a sword was here that had saved his grandfather's life and 'please sir, was it true?'

He had been most amused to be called 'sir' by the Steward's young son, had told him it was indeed true and invited them both inside. The elder beamed in anticipation of a good tale; the younger held tight onto his big brother's hand and said not a word.

And how reverently had an eleven-year-old Boromir held the sword, tested its sharpness, weighed it in his hands before passing it to his young brother who had shyly copied his actions before carefully handing it back. Tregoron showed them to a bench by the fire and his wife had brought them a glass of milk and a piece of shortbread each. While Boromir sat with the sword across his knees, opening and closing his fingers around the hilt, Tregoron proceeded to tell them the full tale of their grandfather's brush with death and of his own grandfather, who's quick thinking had saved his young Lord from a violent end and who had subsequently served him for many years as a personal guard.

Tregoron had found out that day that Boromir had an insatiable appetite for tales of soldiers and battles for he was encouraged to speak of many of his own exploits. It was the younger boy's yawning that had brought his storytelling to a halt, but Boromir had respectfully asked if he might call again and an unlikely friendship had sprung up between the two of them that had lasted almost twenty years now.

The Steward's elder son had become 'the lad' to this tough veteran who, alike to his grandfather, found guarding his young Lord became a way of life, for Boromir grew to be as impetuous and fearless as his grandsire.

But the role of protector had fallen to him almost by accident when Boromir first arrived at the Osgiliath garrison as an inexperienced cadet to begin his army training in earnest. Tregoron had helped him find his feet on only his second day at the garrison. A dispute had erupted, started by an over zealous sergeant, one of those who would harass and ridicule the Steward's son merely for the title he carried and Tregoron had been forced to step in to break it up. From then on he had taken it upon himself to keep his eye on the lad and Boromir had been grateful to find him standing by on many an occasion.

It was Tregoron who had shaken the sleep from Boromir whilst they stood on late watches together; who took his eager pupil out on countless scouting missions, teaching him the lie of the land east of Anduin and how best to read it. And it was his strong arm that had lent the lad support when he struggled not to weep as he surveyed the carnage after his first battle. Over the years, Tregoron's gruff voice had encouraged the Steward's heir when he was unsure of himself, and calmed him down when his impatient temperament vied with the steadier ways of others.

But Tregoron had also tested their friendship, for he could not always side with the lad. He had often kept a very resentful Boromir at the archery ranges long after his day's duty was done, practising till his fingers bled. And it fell to him to impress firmly on the Steward's son that, despite his position, he was as bound by an order from his superiors as any other soldier, whether he agreed with it or not.

For daring to question such an order, Boromir had been instructed to collect up an armful of logs. While his fellow cadets stood watching, Tregoron had placed a few more logs into his arms and then ordered him to march around the drill square carrying his heavy load until finally, the young man's strength at last deserted him and he dropped to the ground, totally exhausted and gasping for breath. Tregoron ordered the silent, shocked soldiers to leave their comrade lying in the rain, but stood by his side himself, waiting till he eventually found just enough energy to half walk, half crawl back to the barracks.

Next morning, a pale faced and somewhat subdued young soldier had presented himself promptly as the dawn trumpets sounded for the first inspection of the day. To his surprise, Tregoron had seen no hostility in the lad's eyes; Boromir had treated him with all due respect and carried out the menial duties allotted to him with his usual cheerful forbearance. Between them the incident had never once been talked of and their friendship survived intact.

He chuckled to himself. Even off duty he had kept a weather eye on the reckless young Lord, sobering him up and seeing him to a barracks bed after many a night of youthful exuberance at the city's taverns. He had even fished him out of a whorehouse more than once, fielding off the ladies who were eager to keep such a fine young man for a longer time.

In truth he had enjoyed the last fifteen years. He had been proud to see the lad emerge into the fine Captain he was today and felt no little satisfaction that he had played an important part in helping him grow to this position. But there were plenty of others to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Boromir himself had learned to temper his excesses; maturity and responsibility bringing self-discipline and his years of warfare having the sobering effect it had on all men. The burdens of leadership now kept him from trouble and, Tregoron reluctantly admitted, it might be pleasant indeed to turn his attention towards his own family where he was perhaps more needed now.

"I hate saying you're right, my lass, but you are." Tregoron says. "And I'm just a foolish old man to keep on denying it."

"No, you're not foolish, Tregoron. 'Tis hard for both of us to feel the passing of the years. I would just like to spend whatever time we have left together. I deem I have shared you with the army long enough."

"And I've spent far too long away from you, lass." He kisses her and then kisses her again. "'Tis past time I put that right. I promise you, I'll sort something out with the lad."

She nods her head. "I do know how hard it will be for you."

But she does not, not really, though he will never tell her so. He pulls away from her to reach for his sword belt. With a calm he does not feel inside, he says, "I should go. Let's hope it's the last time I have to say those words, eh?"

"Oh, I pray so." There are tears in her eyes as they part at the door. "May the Valar keep you safe." She touches her heart and then his, the same ritual she has performed each time they have been parted over the years.

He has no belief that the Valar will do any such thing, for he has seen too much injustice and cruelty on the field of battle to believe in their protection. But it brings her comfort to believe, so he graciously accepts her blessing.

"You will ask him? You will not forget?" she cannot resist calling the reminder.

"I will not forget, my lass." He lifts a hand in a wave from the doorway, steps outside and starts the walk down the street to join his comrades and the lad in the square.


	4. Chapter 4

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Morning Muster

Chapter 4: Wilfrith 

Following the dawn trumpet call, the meanest-minded corporal in Gondor's army enters the dormitory, banging a dagger hilt against a metal tray as he bawls the first orders of the morning. He ignores the protesting oaths and groans as weary men rise to face another day. Cursing, ribald joking, laughter, whistling, the clump of boots on stone, doors slamming, and the echoes of the corporals tray as he tours the other floors; all are familiar sounds of a barracks morning.

Wilfrith is amongst the last to rise, preferring to let most of the men depart to the hall to eat before he readies himself to face the day. He is not a native of the city, but an incomer from a small town on the Sirith's banks, come as a young man in search of adventure and drawn to a military life rather than work in the family tannery back home. Living here amongst soldiers who treat him for the most part as a leper, the barracks are a detested and unwelcome reality, serving only to remind him of what he has lost.

The top half of a barracks bunk is the only place he can now call home while a single wooden locker holds the few possessions he owns. It is as if his home, his wife and his child had never existed. Except that they had existed and he had loved them, worked hard for them both and for the small cottage his wife had turned into a welcoming and comfortable home. It had been an ordinary life for an uncomplicated man and, unlike many, he had been completely happy with his lot.

Wilfrith had always believed in the truths instilled into him as a child by a pious mother. He looked to the Valar to protect him and his family and daily offered thanks for the gifts bestowed on him. But he was to find that faith utterly destroyed. The fire that swept through his home, taking with it the lives of his wife and son, left him feeling sorely betrayed by those in whom he placed his trust. And in the bitterness of his grief he could not understand why he was still alive, he who made his living by the sword, while his family, supposedly safe behind the city walls, were dead.

It made no sense. He had not prepared himself for such an event. The cheerful, stoic soldier turned overnight into a man racked with confusion, alienating all who tried to offer their help by his refusal to be comforted, his melancholy and despair leading him finally to disaster and disgrace.

And that he had not been handed over to the hangman was still cause for wonderment. He is only recently freed after six months of incarceration in a miserable, dark cell in the Tower of Guard, months that had given him time aplenty to contemplate his shameful and foolish actions, his unhappy past and his bleak future. Time aplenty for regrets and self-pity, but little time for hope.

As was his wont, he made no complaints about his imprisonment. The guards treated him well for the most part; the food and the surroundings, though both grim, had not been unbearable for one used to the rough conditions of many an army campaign. The solitude had caused him the most hardship; long days spent in his own company, a tedious existence with only rare interruptions when the guards brought him his meals. A few hours each day spent in a small high-walled courtyard was his only chance to see the sky and feel fresh air on his face. Yet he managed to form a rapport with his gaolers and sometimes, because he was a well behaved prisoner, they would allow him to join them for a game of cards in the guardhouse. From them he gleaned the latest talk from the city; which company was fighting where, what news had come from the borders, who was injured or lost.

Then, nearing the end of his sentence, his Captain, returned from a tour of duty on the eastern borders, had unexpectedly turned up. He stood framed in the doorway of the cell, frowning, two tankards and a jug of ale in his hands. The guards had argued to stay with him, but they had been curtly dismissed back to the guardroom, the cell door firmly kicked closed against them.

"I have just been informed you have asked to be reassigned to the garrison at Pelargir," Boromir said brusquely, "and I'm confused. I cannot think of one good reason why you should wish to do so."

"But, my lord," a bemused Wilfrith had answered, stumbling to his feet in confusion, "I … I thought after all that has happened, it would be best I should leave Minas Tirith, start afresh, a good many leagues from here, sir."

"Do you really want to go south?"

"I do not want to, my lord, no. But, as I have said, it would be for the best."

"Well, I disagree." Boromir had grinned then before putting the tankards on the bench and bending to pour the ale. "And I shall ignore the request, as you will be remaining in my Company. When you get out of this foul place, you will take what time you need to regain your strength and your skills then report to me for duty." He sat down and gestured Wilfrith to do the same.

Wilfrith had been taken aback by the order. No words would come so to fill in the silence he followed his Captain's example, picked up a drink and took a swig.

"And as I am commanded to take you back at a lower rank than you deserve," the Captain continued, "you will work in future with sergeant Mardil."

"Mardil? With the new recruits?"

"Aye. Those young lads are somewhat skittish; they need firm handling and someone they can trust to guide them well, someone who knows all about soldiering."

"Then why pick me, sir? They won't trust me after…."

Boromir interrupted him. "It must be sufficient for them to see how much I trust you. The Valar knows we have fought aside each other long enough for me to know your true mettle, Wilfrith."

Wilfrith was sure he did not deserve such consideration. "I don't understand." He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and, before Boromir could form a reply, he blurted out, "I deserve naught but the deepest contempt from you, my lord. My crimes warranted far more punishment than this," his hand swept around the dreary confines of his cell, "yet at the tribunal you stood by and defended me when all others wished me dead. Now you offer me forgiveness and a chance to start again. Why, my lord?"

But he gave his Captain no time to answer before he continued, "Many men could have died for my actions, sir. Good men of Gondor, men who looked to me to lead them and who I failed. And then… and then to compound my shame I tried to deny it! Tried to find a way to blame others!" He struggled with emotions long suppressed. "Had I not already lost my honour for that, then I surely did when I struck you, my lord! Valar help me, I deserve to have hung for that alone, many said so and..."

"Peace, Wilfrith. Peace." Boromir raised his hand and the man dropped into a miserable silence. "They were wrong. I do not believe one error of judgement, dishonourable or not, should condemn a good man to death. It would have been the grossest folly to take one such as you from Gondor just for the sake of my pride or to satisfy others, especially when I was in large part to blame."

"No, sir. That is not true."

"It is true. You were suffering from a most terrible loss and it was remiss of me to allow you to continue in a position of command. I asked you to carry far more than you could deal with, Wilfrith. I failed you badly. 'Tis I who let you down."

"No." Wilfrith broke in. "Oh no. None of this was your fault, Captain. None of it. My grief was a wholly private thing and should not have travelled with me to the battlefield. What I did was inexcusable and there is no blame belongs to you, sir. None at all. Mine was the error and mine is the shame." He closed his eyes so as not to see the compassion on Boromir's face. "It was I who failed you, my lord, and not just you. I failed my men and … and I brought dishonour to the whole Company. Captain, I beg you to release me from your command for another position. None in Osgiliath will welcome me back and I do not blame them. I am the very worst of men."

Boromir stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the man's depth of self-loathing. Then he reached out and gripped his arm. "Do you think your deeds have gone unnoticed by others in positions of command? Do you think talk of what you did has not travelled on the grapevine to all the garrisons? I could send you to the furthest corner of Gondor, to the most isolated outpost, but I know full well there would be men waiting there to make your life intolerable."

"Then I must suffer their contempt."

"But why should you? Far better to stay to make amends where you are best known and where I can watch your back. It will not be easy and I cannot deny some share your view that you have got away lightly. However, Wilfrith, not all do. You will find you still have some comrades in the Company willing to help you regain your sense of worth."

"By my own actions I have lost the right to call any man a comrade." Wilfrith said bitterly.

"Yet comrades do exist whether you deem so or not. I include myself amongst their number." Boromir spoke very softly and was rewarded for his admission by a spark of incredulous gratitude in the other man's eyes.

"No, Captain, sir, truly I am not worthy…"

"Wilfrith, you asked me why I have sided with you through all this." Rolling his tankard between his hands Boromir gazed into it, thoughtful for a moment, before saying quietly, "When I was a raw recruit trying to find my way, you guided me kindly and well yet clearly without wish for favour, as did some. Others took advantage of my inexperience and set me wrong for their own amusement, but not once did you do so though you had opportunity enough. You earned my respect and I also learnt to place my trust in you. Never have you given me reason to regret doing so."

"Oh, Captain…"

Boromir picked up the jug and leant forward to top up Wilfrith's tankard. "My position makes it hard for me to trust others; it is something I do with very few men. You, Wilfrith, are one of those few. That trust still endures, despite all. I have not forgot what I owe you and well do I know the goodness of your heart."

No word came from the other man. He sat as though stunned by his Captains words.

"We've come a long way together since those early days, have we not?" Boromir continued. "We've shared many a battle and many an ale."

"Aye, so we have, my lord." Wilfrith murmured, too overwhelmed to say more.

"So, as your Captain and comrade, Wilfrith, take this as an order. Stay where you are most needed. Accept my forgiveness and try to find some forgiveness within yourself or this will ruin you. There is nothing that cannot be redeemed. And remember, there are also others besides myself who wish they had done more and still carry the guilt of failure with them."

Wilfrith struggled to respond. "You… you do me great honour with all you have said, my lord, and I thank you. I thank you indeed. You think… you truly think that perhaps, there is then hope for me…"

"I believe so." Boromir smiled. "Trust me, there's not a man alive who can say he has never made a mistake and 'tis a high price you are paying for yours."

"But surely not high enough, sir, not for what I did." Wilfrith stubbornly replied. "Even your own brother thought so."

"Aye, there were those who argued for a harsher punishment and I will admit that when my brother lent his voice to them it saddened me."

"And it grieves me that I was the cause of strife between you and Lord Faramir, sir."

"'Twas but a difference of opinion, not strife." Boromir shrugged. "And I was fortunate that in council my opinion was taken note of and his was not."

"But surely Lord Faramir was right that I deserved a far worse punishment. I acted dishonourably," Wilfrith persisted, "there can be no dispute that it was a most shameful act."

"No dispute at all. Assaulting your Captain is a grave offence; the penalty for that act in your particular case was what divided us. Faramir, quite correctly, was concerned with military regulations, I with justice, which is always far less clear-cut. Personally, I think being locked up in here for a half year is punishment enough for any man; you have done well to survive it with your wits intact. And fear not," he added reassuringly, "my brother and I have agreed to differ as we do on many things and all is well between us." After taking another drink, Boromir chuckled. "You know, you punch like a troll, Wilfrith. I was still seeing stars the next day."

"Oh, by all the Valar, my lord, I am so sorry. I truly am."

They fell silent, each remembering the afternoon when battle fatigue had taken them both. During their encounter with the enemy, Wilfrith had lost concentration, lost the rhythm of the fight, failed to keep his men in a tight position and worse, failed to notice that they were becoming separated from the main force by a successful flanking movement by their opponents. It was a terrible mistake for a seasoned soldier to make and one that had almost led to a breaking of the front line, which would have let the enemy swarm through. Only swift action from those around him had rectified the near calamity.

Later the Captain had come to find him amongst the wreckage of a battle hard won. "Men could have died out there, men who trusted their lives to you, sergeant, and you let them down!" Boromir had been full of rage and disbelief.

Wilfrith had looked around. All eyes directed accusation and hostility at him like so many bitter barbs. And he was so mortified and so utterly, totally exhausted. He did not need to be reminded of his terrible misjudgement; he certainly did not want to be humiliated and scolded like an errant child before his fellows. He just wanted the Captain to stop his cursing and shouting and to leave him alone. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. He wanted the comfort of his wife's arms around him and to hear once more his young sons laughter.

It festered inside, the seething rage he felt against the cruel hand life had seen fit to deal him and, as the Captain continued to yell, all reason deserted him. There was no choice; he could take no more. He had to make the man shut up. Blinded by his feelings and without a single thought as to the consequences, he had swung his arm back. With his fist tightly curled, he aimed directly at Boromir's face.

A warning cry rang out. Boromir started to take a step back and raised a hand in defence, but was a fraction too late. The blow landed just to the side of his left eye, knocking him onto his back.

After an initial stunned silence, had the Dark Lord himself descended into the midst of the gathered company, there could not have been more uproar and chaos.

The only thing that saved Wilfrith from an immediate lynching was a roar for calm from the dazed Captain, helped to his feet and steadied between two soldiers. Facing each other again, Boromir had seen through the frenzied confusion in his assailant's eyes to the utter desolation beneath and it had sobered him instantly to see how much torment the man was in. A further order was swiftly issued in response to that observed pain; that no harm was to come to Wilfrith and, though this had been met with many a protest, Boromir had been forceful in his sergeant's defence.

The military council however, demanded retribution. A capital punishment was rejected after an appeal for mercy from Boromir. Concerned only with gaining justice for his sergeant, he then made a second passionate appeal after which Wilfrith was also spared a corporal penalty. Fellow officers had rounded on Boromir to protest at that but, fully aware that he had, in part, driven the man to disaster, he obdurately ignored their vociferous disagreements and even brushed aside an urgent demand from his brother to see sense and allow a corporal penalty to stand.

But when the beleaguered council members insisted on a lesser sentence of incarceration, he had reluctantly agreed, though they allowed themselves to be persuaded that the sentence of half a year would suffice. And so the decree was duly handed down; Boromir, inwardly astounded that he had predominantly won the day, wisely said nothing when they stripped Wilfrith of his hard won sergeants rank. For such a serious offence, Wilfrith, listening to all the arguments in a bewildered silence, did not know what he had done to deserve such clemency.

"Come back to Osgiliath and stand with me again, Wilfrith." Boromir had ordered before he left the cell.

So here he was, almost eight months since he had last been summoned to muster. The familiar sounds of the Osgiliath Company preparing to leave the city carried memories thick and fast, bringing him to a dizzy standstill in the lee of the arch where he reached for the support of the stone wall behind him. For a moment he had to swallow hard, breathing deeply to steady his nerves in an attempt to prevent his fast departing courage from fleeing altogether. This was far harder than standing in a battle line. Studying the ground at his feet, he gave himself a stern talking to, his eyes fixed on the white stones he had fought to protect since he first joined Gondor's army at the age of eighteen, almost half his lifetime away.

The Captain's eyes alighted on him as he entered the square as though he had been watching for his arrival. Halting uncertainly before the crowds of assembling soldiers, Wilfrith prayed for invisibility or even to be struck down dead, anything, but having to deal with the mistrustful silence that fell amongst those nearest to him as he was recognised.

For a brief, mad moment he considered flight, but he clung yet to a scrap of honour; he had made a promise to Captain Boromir to return and he would not allow himself to break that vow. It would be the first step on the road to regain not only the respect of his fellows, but also his own self-respect. Many eyes turned to him as he forced himself forward, risking a few cursory glances at the men standing back to let him pass, some old companions and some new faces. He wished he could be warmly welcomed as he used to be by comrades glad to see him, for most faces were wary, even hostile, while others were carefully neutral. But he noted a few men did nod a silent greeting.

Then he was once more facing his Captain. It seemed to him as if the men flanking their commander closed in a tighter protective semicircle around him. One, he was certain, even gripped his sword hilt. Boromir obviously sensed the tension in the air for his mouth quirked in a half smile as he watched Wilfrith's approach.

"My lord," Wilfrith dropped to one knee before him, his head bowed, "I am yours to command."

Boromir accepted the gesture by saying in a voice that carried to every man around him "And glad I am to see you here. Your debt is paid in full, Wilfrith, son of Ailfrith, to the satisfaction of your Captain. Stand now and do your duty."

The man began to rise. He stumbled as he did so and Boromir's hand shot out to steady him. "Are you well?" he asked in a low voice.

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Then report to sergeant Mardil over by the postern gate. He has his orders and you will take yours from him. I deem you will find he has a kinder and more forgiving heart than many here." Boromir said pointedly. A few men lowered their eyes, discomfited by his words.

"I will not let you down, my lord." Wilfrith could barely speak for the tightness in his throat.

"That I know," Boromir said, "and Wilfrith, I have made it known to all my officers that you have my full support. They will see word is spread that any man who purposely causes you trouble will have my wrath to face."

Wilfrith managed a slight smile of his own. "That is not a prospect I would relish again, sir."

At that Boromir laughed. "Go steady and good luck, my friend." He extended his hand out to grip Wilfrith's forearm firmly, a salutation of respect not lightly given. At his action, his clear sign of absolution, a discernible lightening of mood passed around the muster square as the soldiery took their cue from their Captain and the beginnings of forgiveness for the prodigal took root.


	5. Chapter 5

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Morning Muster

Chapter 5: Bernan

His arm is wrapped around her slim waist, hers around his, her fingers tucked into his sword belt. They stroll slowly, he curtailing his stride to match hers. Down the steeply curving street they walk past the leather workers shop and the boot makers, and on past the small dressmakers shop on the corner where she will return to work this morning while he marches off to war. Here they pause for a moment while she points out to him a gown in the window display, which shows evidence of her handiwork. He sees exquisitely fine stitching in gold thread on the blue bodice and the numerous tiny golden beads, which have been painstakingly sewn around the neckline to add to the splendour of the dress. To his mind, it is grand enough for the finest noblewoman in the city.

He is fulsome in his praise of his new wife's talents, his pride evident on his face. A handsome young man, with the same brown eyes and dark hair as his Belfalas born father, he is tall with the strong muscular build and graceful agility of a born swordsman. Standing straight, she comes up to his shoulder. Her long, auburn hair lies this morning in a thick plait down her back and, though she is plain of face rather than pretty, she is blessed with a pair of large grey eyes, eyes whose depth and sparkle had ensnared him from the first moment they had met.

It had been a dreary, winter's afternoon. Hurrying home from her work, she had stepped out of the way of a messenger on horseback, cantering up the street on his way to the Citadel, and lost her footing on a patch of smooth, icy stone. Seeing her fall, Bernan and three of his friends had rushed across the street to her aid. Of the four young soldiers who stood towering above her, it had been Bernan's outstretched hand she had chosen to help her to her feet.

He still held onto her hand once she was standing and she made no attempt to remove it from his grasp. Having ascertained she was not hurt, they had stood smiling foolishly at each other for a long moment before, red-faced with sudden awkwardness, he released her to bend down to pick up her basket. As he did so, he realised she would likely walk out of his life as swiftly as she had entered it if he did nothing to stop her. So, gathering his wheeling emotions together, he held on to the basket, boldly dismissed his grinning comrades and firmly placed her hand through his arm, insisting on walking her to her door. And that had been the start.

Bernan courted her with all due propriety. He had to work hard to please her pleasant, but rather over-protective mother, two sisters, elder brother and the stern grandmother who lived with them but, with his innate good manners and cheerful disposition, he eventually overcame their wariness and found himself warmly welcomed into the family home. His commitment to his work and plans for the future also impressed her father, by trade a master silversmith and a friendly, good-humoured man. Though Bernan's duties often took him away from the city, on his return, hers was the first house he called at.

And there was nothing he enjoyed more than sharing time with her, for they never ran out of things to say and laughter came so easily. To have her walk by his side or sit with him in the more reputable taverns cheered his oftimes heavy heart, reminding him that there was a reason he trod the dark and frequently terrifying road of a soldier, that there was still much goodness and sweetness worth fighting for. Sharing a liking for music and dancing, he soon discovered, to his delight, that she had a light, clear singing voice. The night she was persuaded to give a song at the Twisted Tree, the chosen tavern of Osgiliath's men, all other voices had ceased while his fellow soldiers turned to listen as if bewitched.

She quickly became known as the little songbird to those rough, battle hardened soldiers, her appearance in their tavern on Bernan's arm a cue to cease their moans about the gritty reality of a soldier's life. The purity of her voice touched every soldier's heart, transporting them all for a few moments to a better place where war and orcs and battle seemed a long, long way away.

Listening one night by the bar had been the Captain. His eyes had rested on her as much as every other man's there and, Bernan noted, by the pensive look which softened his weary face, even he was not immune from the sweet quality of her voice. Later, as they left the tavern, Bernan introduced her to his Captain and Boromir courteously raised her hand to kiss, thanked her for singing and expressed his hope that she would grace their company again very soon. Then, halting him for a second, he murmured in his ear, "Let that lass go, Bernan, and you'd be a damn fool."

But Bernan was no fool and he hadn't let her go. A year to the day of their first meeting she accepted his proposal and they were wed within another half year on his return from a gruelling, but victorious, campaign on the northeastern borders.

Their wedding day was a blur of smiles and handshakes, solemnity and joy. The sun shone, their families and friends gave generously to the wedding feast and the merriment had gone on well into the early hours. He had been in uniform; she wore a cream silken gown, which she had sewn all over with roses in silver thread that caught the light to make her shimmer as she walked towards him. His voice choked as he made his vows to her and, as she in turn spoke her vows, her hand resting lightly in his, he felt his heart tumbling in his chest.

They spent their first night together upstairs in the hostelry where they had held the wedding party, from where they could hear the laughter and singing still going on in the downstairs rooms. After drawing the heavy linen curtains around the four-poster bed, they lay back against the pillows in their own private world and drank a toast to their future, sharing a glass of very special wine. It held a fragrance of years end, of wild berries and wood smoke and, as Bernan swirled it around in the glass, candlelight flickered in its dark ruby depths. Neither of them had ever tasted anything so fine or so warming. Round the neck of the bottle was tied a parchment note, his Captains message of good wishes to them both, written in his own hand and signed simply, Boromir.

The night before the wedding, Bernan had been astonished when his Captain had called at his family home at their small boatyard down by the Harlond, to wish him well and bring him the gift. Boromir had accepted the offer of a whisky and sat down with him, his parents and sister, at a table by a large open window overlooking the river. He had instantly placed Bernan's father's accent as southern and the talk turned easily to boats, the sea and Belfalas.

His late mother, the Captain told them, had hailed from the southern city of Dol Amroth and he knew that area of Belfalas well; he had many happy memories of exploring the beaches there. He also told them he still had a box that held an assortment of seashells, driftwood, crab claws and pebbles for as a child he never left the beach empty-handed. There was one particular shell that was very special for his mother had found it for him. She had taught him how to hold it so he could hear the sea through it even when at home in Minas Tirith. He kept it by his bedside, he said with a sad smile, for it reminded him of happier, more innocent times. Bernan was able to say he too had such a shell and had been promptly bidden to fetch it. After Boromir had admired it he then duly listened, laughed and pronounced it worked quite as well as his own.

But it had not been just a social call. The Captain brought also a warning to the other young men who had begun to gather at the yard, mainly fellow soldiers, not to ply Bernan with too much drink or play any tricks on him. In a stern voice that belied the smile on his face, Boromir had ordered them not to do anything that would spoil the little songbirds wedding day or they would have him to answer to. None had found the will to defy him, much to Bernan's relief.

Four days after the wedding he was back to a stint of duty in the Anorien forests, and she returned to the dressmaker's workroom and the embroidery she executed so finely. She had known what to expect as a soldiers wife, and was wise enough not to moan about the lonely nights and long days. Bernan had been honest with her from the start; he enjoyed a soldiers life and, despite the hardship of constant partings, he intended to stay with his Company and the Captain he so admired; the Captain who had recently given him another promotion.

Now a sergeant, he enjoys the extra responsibilities his work has brought him and has already set his sights on a junior officer's posting within two years. Indeed, he hopes to prove himself worthy of consideration during the coming weeks. But that isn't the only thing on his mind as they enter the main thoroughfare leading down to the square, for he suddenly turns sharply right.

"Bernan!" she finds herself being propelled down a narrow alleyway and then pulled to a halt. He is grinning, her husband; there is a twinkle in his eyes. "Bernan, where are we going? You'll be late."

He ignores her. "Know where we are?"

She nods. "Of course. Coopers Alley, but..."

"Where I first kissed you, remember?" Bernan says. "It was raining. Even with your hair all rats tails, you were so beautiful."

"I know it was a freezing night. That rain turned to snow later."

"You were shivering."

"And you gave me your cloak." She smiles, sliding her arms around his neck. "And I remember not wanting to go home, even though I was so cold."

His arms wind around her, pulling her closer. "All I remember is your softness," he kisses her mouth gently, "and how gorgeous you looked and… how lovely you were and how sweet and… wonderful and… and…"

"How hopelessly in love with you I was?" she finishes off for him, her fingers twining in his hair.

"Well, of course you were. How could you resist a good-looking lad like me?" He kisses her harder this time, his hands resting on her hips. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't want to go."

"I don't want you to go." she whispers before she kisses him back with equal fervour. Around them the morning was also beginning for many others, but the young couple paid no heed to the marching boots that passed by on the street, the boy who peeked round the corner, saw them and ran off giggling, the dog that sniffed around their feet then slinked away or Bernan's lieutenant who espied them on his way to the square and, grinning to himself, made a note to have some fun with his knowledge.

"Got to go." Eventually he mutters into her hair. "I've got to go."

"Oh, Bernan..."

"No. I must." Reluctantly, he pulls away. "You know, I wish sometimes I'd taken work with my father at the yard and not joined the army, then we could be together all the time."

"Don't be foolish, Bernan. We might have more time together but I know as well as you that you'd be miserable." Her hand strokes his cheek gently. "Soldiering is in your blood. I've always known that."

"I just hate these farewells."

"So do I." Then she smiles. "But I love welcoming you home. Let us both look forward to that."

His face brightens at her words. "Oh, my lovely, that day can't come too soon."

He reaches for her but she steps deftly aside, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair behind her ears. "No. We must hurry. You can't keep Captain Boromir waiting."

Bernan takes her hand and they rejoin the wide street, walking briskly down the hill, the sounds of the muster getting louder by the moment. Her grip tightens. Only seconds more and she will have to leave him. Tears threaten, but she does not want that and tries hard to blink them away.

Pausing under the final archway, he turns to her. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Bernan gazes into her eyes, glistening with tears. He uses his thumbs to gently brush them away and whispers, "I will take care. And I will come home."

"You'd better."

He glances over his shoulder at the waiting crowd; sees his Captain leaning casually against the wall, his eyes scanning the milling hordes before him. His face is relaxed. One hand rests on his sword hilt, the other is idly fiddling with the Horn that swings at his hip. His eyes come to rest on them for a moment and he smiles at his young sergeant, raising one hand to give a lazy acknowledgment. Bernan returns the salutation crisply and smiles back. The man seems in good humours. That is a good sign. If the Captain is at ease then all bodes well.

He turns back to his wife. "Go now. Don't wait here."

He wants to concentrate on being a soldier with nothing to distract him. She understands. Standing on her toes, she pulls his head down to hers and kisses him quickly one last time. "Fare thee well, soldier."

"Fare thee well, maid."

Her hands grasp his, squeeze them tight, then she lets go, turns and walks without looking back up the street. Grateful she has made no fuss, he watches until she reaches the corner and passes out of sight.

Then, fighting back tears of his own, he takes a few deep breaths and spins on his heels to join his comrades.


	6. Chapter 6

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.

**Title** - The Morning Muster

Chapter 6: Eoren

"Are all the men present, sergeant?"

"All but one, sir." Rangold snaps out a hasty salute as the Captain emerges through the throng of soldiers, surprising him where he lazed against the wall, idly biting a fingernail. He holds up the muster roll for the man to see but Boromir flaps it away with a wave of his hand.

"Let me guess. Young Eoren?" he hazards with a grin.

"She's probably still polishing his boots, my lord." The sergeant grins back; thanking the Valar the Captain is in a good mood. A stickler for discipline he might be, yet something in Eoren's nature seems to amuse the man and the lad's tardiness and other small lapses are usually overlooked.

But Eoren, walking at his mother's frustratingly slow pace, is on his way to the square, trying to disguise the acute discomfort he feels and praying she will not reach for his hand. He knows he is already late. However, he will gladly accept whatever punishment may await him for it will be nothing compared to an emotional outburst from his mother should her temper be breached.

He has had to already endure her cutting his hair far shorter than he likes and, at her insistence, he shaved off his beard before this mornings return to duty. It made him look like a filthy peasant, she had said. He had sulkily remarked that many of the soldiers in his unit wore beards, even some of the officers, and would she dare suggest Captain Boromir looked like a filthy peasant?

'Yes', had come the sharp reply, 'he does, and he needs his hair cutting too. If he was my son…'

Her tirade had continued for many minutes. He had listened in a depressed silence to her condemnation of his Captain before she turned her displeasure to the shortcomings of his father, the Steward. She even, to Eoren's bewilderment, managed to find fault with Lord Faramir, his brother.

On receiving his posting to the Osgiliath garrison, pride in her only son saw her boasting to their neighbours of his achievements as if he were the only soldier in the city on whom Gondor could depend for its survival. That her pride in him led her easily to exaggeration then to blatant untruth was a torment he had to bear. She failed to notice the amusement and ridicule in her neighbour's eyes or see his humiliation.

But her proud boasts turned to bitter acrimony as soon as the door shut on her audience. Then it had become a furious rant. Why was he going away from the city? Why had he been posted to Osgiliath? Why was he content to be with the regular army when he knew full well she had the Tower Guard in mind for him? On and on she nagged. Eoren had told many a lie, insisting time and again that he had no say in where he was posted. But the truth was, he had all but fallen on his knees and begged his superiors to send him to the ancient city.

She tried tears, played on the gentler side of his nature, whining that she would be left alone again, that he did not love her, that he should have pressed harder for a posting in the city close to home. He braced himself for the end to her outburst for he knew well what it would be. Whatever prompts the start of it, it always ends the same way. The litany never changes. Eoren is heartless, ungrateful, selfish and finally, inevitably, just like his father. The last denunciation is spat out with real venom. When she accuses him of being the same as the father he adores, his heart beats with pride, only to be torn asunder when her loathing of the man makes itself plain.

Small wonder his father had requested a transfer from the Tower Guard to the furthest of the southern border garrisons. Eoren missed him terribly when he left, yet even then, at the age of nine, he understood his father's reasons for doing so. And on the rare occasions that he had seen his father in the intervening years, his mother's bitter disparagement of the man was barely worth the joy Eoren felt to see him again.

Following his father to the south had more than once crossed his mind, but he is trapped. Though he does not, in truth, any longer love his mother, he understands her need of him. With her husband long gone, she is dependant on Eoren's wages for a roof over their heads and food on the table. Guilt, pity and a misplaced sense of loyalty ties him to her.

As they near the square he is only too well aware that the sun is glinting on his leather boots; boots she spent so much time buffing to a mirror finish. When her head is bent over this task it is one of the few occasions when her tongue ceases to move and he has learned to accept with gratitude this small respite from her belittling and malice. Gladly will he bear his comrades taunts, shielding their eyes at his approach as they pretend to be dazzled by the gleaming leather.

"You will ask him again?" it is more of an order than a request.

"Yes, mother. I will."

"And do not be fobbed off with him telling you Osgiliath is a better posting. The Tower Guard would be grateful to have such a soldier as you amongst its ranks. That Captain Boromir can have any number of ruffians he likes. You deserve better." She is puffing slightly as he speeds up and takes the steps two at a time, but she manages to stick with him.

But he will not ask. He has found camaraderie at the Osgiliath garrison, the rough and ready ways of the regular soldiers much to his liking, though at first he found it a tough challenge to be accepted into their ranks. A shy cadet with such shiny boots had been an easy target, and many tormented him unmercifully at first. But then, when he took their banter and mockery so well and learned to give back with his own special brand of humour, he slowly established his place as one of them. After nearly two years of service amongst those men, he has no wish to serve anywhere else.

The square is close by; he can hear the noise of many voices, the clatter of weaponry and armour, bawled orders and equally loud replies and he begins to feel his excitement rise. At the gate he pauses.

"Well, we're here, mother." he says. "Farewell. I will soon be home again."

"We aren't there yet." She has not stopped and Eoren has to break into a short run to catch up with her as she hastens through the gate before halting as the scene in the square takes her by surprise. He almost cannons into her.

"Mother!" He hisses. "You cannot be here. You have to go back."

"Will you look at all those soldiers? They all look as though they've just climbed straight from their beds, unkempt and scruffy, the lot of them." She stands hands on her hips, shaking her head.

"It's not a parade." Eoren takes her arm to try and turn her. "We're marching to the garrison."

"Well, at least you will not disgrace the city." Her smile alights on him, somewhat gentler than he expected.

"Eoren!" To his amazement and horror, his Captain, followed by sergeant Rangold, is striding towards them.

"My lord!" he exclaims, his face a bright red. "Forgive me, sir. I was delayed."

"You're always delayed by something, lad. 'Tis no surprise." The apology is airily dismissed. "Good morning to you, mistress." Boromir inclines his head politely to Eoren's mother who tilts her own back at him.

"Good morning, my lord." She says and then, to Eoren's mortification, she takes his arm, pushes him forward and says openly, "Come, Eoren, here's your chance. Ask the Captain now."

"Mother!"

"Is aught amiss?" Boromir asks.

"No, sir." Eoren says, a little too quickly, but his mother is undeterred.

"Oh, you are hopeless, lad. Captain Boromir, on behalf of my son, may I speak to you, sir?"

Boromir looks startled, but encourages her with a smile, which is soon wiped by her words.

"'Tis Eoren's wish, my lord, to be transferred to the city, but he has not the wit to ask you himself. We both hope you will consider reassigning him into the Tower Guard. His father once served in the Guard, sir, years ago, and Eoren has always wanted to follow in his footsteps."

The Captain is unable to hide his surprise. "I will certainly consider it, mistress, though…" he turns to Eoren, but sees he has been ambushed by a group of his young comrades who are cheerily admiring his shining boots, shading their eyes. Rangold, he notices, has slunk to one side several steps away. "I had no idea Eoren wished to leave Osgiliath to join the Guard."

"Oh, indeed he does, my lord. It has always been his ambition. It was such a disappointment when his request to join the Guard was ignored when he received his first posting. He has always been most unhappy in Osgiliath; he badly misses his home when he is away and finds the company hard to tolerate." She gestures about the square with her hand, her face creased with repugnance. "Just look around you, my lord. The state of these men says it all. Unkempt, unshaven; they are not fit companions at all for one such as my son. He has already been obliged to spend far too long in their company, coarse and foul-mouthed as they are."

Anger flares in the Captains eyes as Boromir prepares to defend his men, but she has the better of him, wagging her finger in his face as she continues, "I was concerned when first he left home that these common soldiers would do their best to corrupt him. Oh, as soldiers they do a fine enough job, I will grant you that, but the regulars have always been known to be ill-mannered and crude to a man. Not like the Guard or the Rangers; now they're a far better class of men, always have been, far better suited to one of Eoren's temperament and upbringing."

Boromir tries again to protest. His words are drowned as she carries on blithely, "And I fear that despite Eoren's best efforts to keep himself apart, they are having an effect on him which I grieve to see, arguing and defying his mother's wishes as he never used to do. Came home drunk one night, he did, poor lad, and it was all the fault of your men, taking advantage of him, forcing him to drink against his own wishes. I've seen them when they're abroad in the city; the taverns are full to overflowing when Osgiliath's men come back from a campaign. A half decent Captain would keep a tighter rein on them. 'Tis not right that my son be tempted into bad ways by the likes of such men. He comes from a very respectable home."

Boromir chooses to ignore her insults and is about to say that drinking helps to temporarily obliterate the horrors of war; that he takes refuge there himself at times, but he knows she would not understand should she take a breath to listen. Listen is something he doubts she ever does.

"Nigh on two years has passed, my lord, since my Eoren was sent away and no-one seems prepared to answer our appeals, though I have asked sergeant Rangold there many times to plead on our behalf. Mind you, he is as ignorant as they come; with him in charge 'tis no surprise Eoren has been overlooked…"

When Eoren gets the chance to look over his shoulder, he manages to see where his Captain, to his dismay, has been cornered. His mother, whose head barely reaches his chest, now has him pinned helplessly to the wall, held captive by the sheer power of her tongue. The Captain nods his head, takes a sideways step, but she is with him and he gains no ground. Eoren sees the man hold up a hand and open his mouth to speak. From experience, he knows that any attempt to interrupt her will be easily routed and so it is.

Boromir has never faced an enemy such as this woman. Total bewilderment and an overwhelming desire to run override his anger at her disparagement of him and his Company, but she is blocking his escape. Unless he physically lifts her out of the way, he is unable to act. Although strongly tempted to do so, he resists. All he can do is stand with his arms folded protectively across his chest and wait. Nearby his soldiers have fallen back, a disbelieving silence falling about them as they stand transfixed by the unfolding drama, not one stepping forward to his aid.

Sergeant Rangold casts Boromir a sympathetic look and receives a wide-eyed appeal for help over the top of the woman's head, which he ignores with a wry smile. Eoren, burning with embarrassment, is as temporarily frozen as his fellows, but when he hears the words undisciplined, disgraceful, shameful, rabble, falling from her lips he knows it is time to act to rescue his beleaguered Captain.

"Mother! Please! Stop this." Eoren steps forward to grab hold of her arm and it is the small interruption his Captain needs. As her attention momentarily turns to her son, Boromir slips free, twists adroitly and takes a place by the side of sergeant Rangold, whose eyes instantly fill with panic. Boromir is feeling better now he is on more open ground with room to manoeuvre and manages to hold his position as her finger once more threatens to have his eye out.

"… should be reported to the Steward!" She has barely stopped to draw breath before facing him again. "A disgrace it is. Well, I demand you right this wrong now, my lord. Today. 'Tis long past time you took note of Eoren's misery. He has never belonged in Osgiliath and a more observant Captain would have seen that long ago. And as for you." the finger jabs at Rangold. A veteran of many battles, he visibly flinches. "You're to blame for encouraging such shocking behaviour amongst all these young lads and trying to ruin my sweet, sensitive boy."

The Captain hears her say 'sweet' and 'sensitive', but they are not words he would use to describe the young soldier and he feels many a dead orc would agree with him. Memories of Eoren come to mind; howling a defiant battle cry, boldly plunging into the fray of battle by his side; blood spattered and grimly jubilant, raising his bloodied sword high over the corpses of his victims. And then he pictures off duty Eoren, happily swilling his ale, a tavern wench on his knee. He recalls seeing Eoren blatantly cheating at cards, joining in with the singing of bawdy army songs, grabbing a bottle of wine and leading his wench up the stairs…

"If you had half the concern they claim you have for those who serve in your Company, you would see a post in the city would suit him far better, amongst men more superior and fitting…." She is still speaking, Boromir realises, blinking in disbelief. Desperately anxious to regain some semblance of command, he holds up both hands to try to stem the flow and says loudly, "You have made your point well, mistress. Believe me, I shall act upon it. "

Sensing she still has a deal more to pronounce, he hastily adds, "Enough, mistress. Enough. Forgive me, but I have orders I must follow. It will greatly displease the Steward should we delay longer. We must be gone." He manages to contain another interruption by pushing his hands forward as a barrier between them. "Rest assured, I have taken heed of your words, as has sergeant Rangold."

"That fool of a man? I tell you, a useless lummox he is, sir, and a very bad influence on these young men." She glares at the sergeant. "Had he done his job correctly in the first place, as I have often told him, then I would not have had to bother you this morning, my lord. How many times I…"

"We must go, mistress." Boromir says firmly, bows and backs away and, with a note of desperation says, "Eoren, come here, lad. See your mother to the gate."

Having at last gained the upper hand, he watches as Eoren escorts her away and turns back to find his sergeant. "Valars blood, Rangold, why did you not warn me about her?" Then his eyes narrow as he looks accusingly at the man. "Did you know I was about to walk into an ambush?"

"I guessed so and decided rather you than me, my lord."

"Indeed? I shall remember that." But there is no malice in his voice. "You know, Rangold, I feel…"

"Flayed, sir?"

"Aye. Something like that." Boromir shakes his head, still incredulous. "Now I understand why Eoren is always willing to stay at Osgiliath and take on extra duties. Mayhap I should send his mother to the Morannon. She could talk the Nameless One to death."

"Personally, I'd tie her in a sack and throw her in the river." Sergeant Rangold offers unhelpfully.

"That is not something I could countenance, sergeant," Boromir feints disapproval then laughs, "though I can understand your sentiments. But should everyone start along that road with the folk who irritated them then the city would soon be empty and the river full. And," he adds with a grin, "I deem that you and I would find ourselves amongst the first to be so dispatched."

"My lord, mean you to imply that sergeants and Captains do not always inspire love and devotion from the ranks?" Rangold's mouth is twisted into a sardonic grin.

"I do, and well you know 'tis true." Boromir glances to his right to see a miserable young soldier return to the square. "Just grant us a moment alone, Rangold."

When Eoren reaches him, Boromir guides the young man over to a quiet corner. "Osgiliath would be a far duller place without you, Eoren. From whence came this desire to stay city bound?"

He can hardly bring himself to look at his Captain; he just shrugs and shakes his head.

"Is it truly your wish or just your mothers?" Boromir asks.

"She wants me closer to her, my lord. She is all alone. If I was in the city then…" he tails off.

"Would you not be captive to her every whim?"

"Aye, sir, I would." Eoren replies, his voice dull, reflecting his abject misery. "I am so sorry, my lord."

"It was not your fault." Boromir reassures him. "But understand this, my lad. The Tower Guard are the finest of men and I am proud of each and every one of them. They may be held to the city for the most part, but they are no lesser soldiers for that."

"I know that, sir." Eoren raises his head to look his Captain squarely in the eye. "And I would be honoured to serve in the Guard, as once my father did, if you so order me."

Boromir nods his approval. "That is good. Yet I believe 'tis not amongst their number your mother sees you at all. I deem, once accepted into the Guard, she would then petition to have you reduced to standing gate duty only; taking on nothing more deadly than drunkards, thieves and petty wrongdoers."

"She would do that, my lord. I have no doubt of it."

Boromir hooks his thumbs into his belt, his eyes placing Eoren under close scrutiny. "I am about to lead this Company into the northern reaches of Ithilien where the Rangers report large numbers of our enemies are gathering. You well know that what awaits us will be tiring, filthy work with at best a wounding and at worst, a gruesome death. I imagine tackling the drunkards as they fall out of the taverns might seem to many to be a far preferable way of life."

"I'm sure it would be to many, sir, but not to me."

"No?"

"No, Captain. It would not. My lord, I would far rather be where the fighting is, with my Company and my comrades and under your command."

There is no guile in his staunch allegiance. It pleases his Captain. "Then there is no doubt where best I should place you." Boromir replies. "You and I will continue to stand and fight together, private Eoren, and when we return home, we will stand again to brave your mother's wrath as best we can. A transfer to the Tower Guard is denied, soldier."

The youngster relaxes, a relieved smile lighting his face. "Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you very much."

Boromir claps him on the shoulder. "So, may we now be on our way, lad?"

"We can, Captain. I am quite ready." Eoren grins cheekily, but the salute he gives his Captain is smartly executed and his boot heels clack together as he snaps to a respectful attention.

There is hope in her heart for her son. This will surely be the last time he marches away. She is pleased to see from where she is observing on the wall that he is speaking to his Captain. She hopes he will say nothing out of place; wants to call to him to mind his tongue. Seeing his sharp salute she blushes with pride, but when the man laughs at whatever Eoren has said, she is confused.

She watches as Captain Boromir walks towards the Great Gate; she sees him leap nimbly up onto a mounting block to shout his orders to the waiting troops.

"Men of Osgiliath's Company," his powerful voice echoes around the square, "now young Eoren is all set to join us at last, we shall set forth. Form your ranks! Lieutenants, to me!"

Laughter greets his words, loud cheers acknowledge his order then a silence descends as the disparate groups of men swiftly transform themselves into ranks of disciplined soldiers, jumping to almost as one, ready to leave their city in orderly columns. A groom brings the Captain's horse. Once Boromir sees the men are ready to march, he has a few final words with his officers then takes the reins, riding proudly to his position at the front of his Company.

From her vantage point she hears his words about her son and has to swallow an overwhelming desire to go down and rebuke the man for his impudence. She sees him raise the Horn to his lips. As the Great Gate swings open a single loud blast signals the Osgiliath Company is leaving the city. Trumpets on the walls answer with piercingly clear notes that linger like smoke on the still morning air, high above the heads of the marching soldiers.

As she makes her way home she is pleased to think that Eoren shall not serve again under Captain Boromir, his tunic awry, his hair falling into his eyes and that dreadfully untidy beard.

Not to mention his boots in sore need of a polish.


End file.
